Chapter One: Crowned in Dusk and Darkness

  "Fourteen years of my life I’ve dedicated to providing for you two, and where has that gotten me?!" His voice shakes the walls, booming and sharp. "I sacrificed everything! My body, my time, everything! And for what? For you to be an ungrateful little rat!"

  Amelie hears the fridge door slam in the other room, the shelf he hasn’t fixed in years crashing down inside with a deafening clatter. Footsteps stomp down the hallway toward her room, each one freezing her breaths in her chest. She burrows under her blanket, curling tightly, hiding herself from the world outside. The bedroom door creaks open, the footsteps stop, and that horrible, horrible smell fills the air.

  The silence lingers painfully for a moment… "I regret… every moment…" His voice drops to a quiet, bitter mumble, accompanied by the gurgle of liquid draining from his bottle. Then the heavy stomps retreat down the hallway, leaving a tense, suffocating silence behind.

  Amelie leaves the blanket haven–having it ruffling her hair to be such a mess, covering her face, but she has no interest in calming the beast. She doesn't like being here very much, not anymore, so sometimes she finds ways to leave. Her mother had gifted her this book years ago, a fantasy story that her grandmother used to read her at bedtime. Sometimes opening a book doesn’t just open the pages—it opens her, too, letting her slip into its world.

  Amelie doesn’t like leaving anything she cares about out, not with him wandering through when he drinks. He only ever comes under her blanket for her—he never touches the little treasures she keeps beside her, so they stay tucked close at night. She grabs her desk lamp and her bag, then settles back into her blanket base, opening the novel to the page she left off on.

  “In the quiet woods, a tiny light learned that it did not need to be loud to be brave. Even when the great bear roared and the shadows stretched tall, the light kept shining, steady and warm.

  The bear, confused by such calm courage, slowly turned away, for even the biggest fears grow smaller near kindness. And the little light learned this truth: a safe glow, no matter how small, can protect an entire world.”

  Amelie blinks a few times, letting the story settle in, but the sounds around her feel different tonight. Tsssss… Something sizzles, like a tiny campfire, warm and crackling. The floorboards groan under invisible footsteps. Maybe it’s him, creeping around, Amelie thinks, and her stomach twists. The wind outside huffs hard against the window, rattling the panes.

  She hugs her blanket closer, peeking out just a little to see, though she doesn’t dare move too much. The shapes around her are all wrong—tall shelves, stacks of books, torches flickering far above. Her eyes widen, and she yanks the blanket back over her head, heart thumping, and breaths stuttered… Her shaking hands turn blue as she grips the blanket tightly, slowly dragging it down to sneak peeks again.

  Very tall, ancient shelves rise all around her, packed with thousands of dusty books. The wooden floor is cracked and broken, holes everywhere, nails poking up like tiny traps. Torches line the walls, their flames strong but flickering, fighting to stay alive under thick spider webs that hang from every corner. Chandeliers dangle from the ceiling, swinging slightly as if tired, their light barely reaching the far corners of the room. On the ground lies only her blanket, her pillow, her light, and her bag—her mother’s gift still tucked safely inside.

  The torches barely light the room. Shadows hug the corners, and she can’t help but wonder if something might jump out and grab her.

  She clicks her lamp on. The light flickers, weak and struggling, but steady enough to see. Her hand glides over the nearest books, brushing off thick layers of dust. A tiny cough escapes her, and she freezes, waiting for any sound to answer back.

  She leans closer to the shelf and squints at the letters.

  “The Whispering Woods…” she whispers, tilting her head.

  “The Clockmaker’s Secret…” Another shelf, another set of words, gold and curling in the torchlight.

  "His flesh wasn't worthy…" Her voice reads the title, barely louder than a sigh.

  Then her eyes light up, spotting another fantasy novel she has never seen before. She reaches carefully, brushing the thick dust from the cover.

  “This one… I can read this one,” she murmurs, hugging it close to her chest, heart thumping with a mix of fear and excitement.

  Maple and the Magical Glade. The title disappears into her bag.

  The floorboards creak under her feet as she continues walking down the aisles, hearing a new noise in the near distance…

  Snooooore… snorreeee…

  Amelie peeks through a hole in the bookshelf. In the middle of an open area, a check-out desk sits quietly. An old, old woman lies slumped over it, head resting on her arms, snoring. Her computer sparks with tiny zaps, buzzing with static, and a thin trickle of snot drips from her large nose.

  Amelie approaches quietly, slowly, and carefully… getting closer to the seemingly large hibernating woman.

  "Ex-excuse me…" she mumbles, tugging on her green dress to no response.

  Amelie releases a tiny sigh, taking a step back as her shoulders sink.

  She, too, is covered in cobwebs. Tiny little legged creatures crawling all across her skin, moving up and down as she snores heavily.

  Amelie bites her lip. She could try to brush them off… maybe help her… but just looking makes her stomach twist.

  “There’s no use trying to wake her,” a voice booms from the shadows, rich and regal, every word laced with sarcasm. “She hasn’t stirred in years."

  Amelie freezes, clutching her bag to her chest. The shadows seem to ripple around the voice, twisting and whispering. Her stomach knots at the thought of who that voice could belong to… She takes a step backward, then another, heart hammering in her chest. Without thinking, she lowers herself to the ground, sliding behind the check-out desk, bag clutched tight. Her breath comes in quick little hitches, and every shadow feels alive, twisting closer with the voice hiding in the darkness.

  Her eyes dart around the shadows where the voice came from. Two bright, white eyes blink open, staring at her from the darkness.

  “I can almost smell the helplessness coming from your body,” the voice continues, dripping with mockery. “Oh my… what a sight…”

  Amelie’s eyes widen. The shadows seem to shift, the voice drawing nearer, echoing slightly against the shelves. Panic prickles up her spine. She spins, trying to put space between herself and the sound, but her foot catches on a broken floorboard. Arms flailing, she trips hard, tumbling to the ground with a sharp thump.

  Amelie groans, lying on the floor, rubbing her scraped knee.

  “Ah, that must’ve hurt,” the voice purrs from the shadows, smooth and amused. “You’ll need to work on your footwork if you hope to survive here, little one.”

  Instinctively, she scrambles forward and clings to the edge of the old woman’s dress, hiding as best she can behind the slumped figure at the desk. Her hands grip the fabric tightly, knuckles white, and she hardly dares to breathe.

  As the shadows shift and the figure moves into the dim torchlight, the whiteness fades into a deep, gleaming green. A sleek black cat steps forward, tail flicking with judgment. He stretches lazily, ears tilting, and gives her a long, imperious stare.

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  Her mouth falls open. It’s… a cat? she thinks.

  She takes a deep, shuddering breath, pressing her back against the desk. Slowly, she lets some of the tension slip from her shoulders, trying to steady her racing heart.

  “Abram,” he announces, voice dripping with mock grandeur. “At your service.”

  Amelie swallows hard, slowly getting back to her feet, rubbing the back of her head. “H-hi…” Her voice is tiny, almost swallowed by the shadows.

  “Pathetic,” Abram says, tail flicking. “Tripping over nothing… clearly, this place will chew you up if you’re not careful.”

  Amelie blinks, cheeks flushing. “…W-why are you… a cat?” she whispers.

  The cat’s eyes widen, ears flattening in horror. “A cat?!” he hisses, indignation dripping from every word. “How dare you! I am a creature of sophistication and authority, not some… common feline!" He puffs up slightly, tail swishing with pride. “Besides, even in cat form, I will outdo anyone else in any form, always and without question.”

  Amelie lunges forward, grinning, and buries her hands in his sleek black fur.

  “Hey!” Abram yowls, hopping back a step, ears flattening. “Do you think anyone touches me without permission? I am a creature of distinction!”

  Amelie giggles, holding him tight anyway.

  Abram freezes, tail flicking stiffly, then lets out a long, dramatic sigh. “…Fine,” he murmurs, leaning into her hands. “Perhaps… it is tolerable. But only this once.”

  Her laughter bubbles over as she pets him again, feeling the warmth of his fur and forgetting, for just a moment, the strange library around them.

  “Now!” he says louder, taking a few deliberate steps away before spinning to face her again. “If you plan on surviving here, you need to learn a few things.”

  Amelie stays on her knees, leaning up slightly, hands resting in her lap. She watches him closely, eyes wide and ears tuned to every word.

  “Rule one,” he announces, voice dripping with grandeur, “when I am bathing myself from the filth of this place, you must—and I mean must—leave me alone!”

  He closes his eyes, tilting his head up with all the dignity of a king.

  “And you,” he continues, opening one eye to glance at her, “should bathe yourself as well. Look at you—your hair is a mess, and your dress hasn’t been straightened in God knows how long.”

  “Okay…” she mumbles, brushing some of the dust from the hem of her white dress. Her fingers tremble a little from the ridiculousness of being scolded by a cat.

  "Rule two, if you hear deep stomping coming hide yourself and do not make a peep. I cannot protect you from that foul beast."

  "A beast?"

  “Yes, I’ve deemed it… the Cryptwalker,” he intones, voice dropping deep at the name. “A huge, evil creature that will tear you limb from limb within seconds of finding you. Do not let it find you, little one.”

  Amelie’s eyes go wide, and her hands clutch her bag tighter. Her stomach twists as she imagines the monstrous thing, heart hammering in her chest.

  “Where are we?” Amelie rises to her feet, eyes wide, glancing around the shadows that stretch across the towering shelves.

  “Erm… well, a library, of course. Can’t you see?” Abram’s tone drips with mock patience.

  “Why?" Her voice trembles, riddled with uncertainty. "How?"

  “…Doesn’t matter. We’re here now, so we must make do with what we have.” The cat jumps gracefully onto the desk, tucking his tail neatly around his paws, settling with all the dignity of a king.

  Amelie watches him settle on the desk, tail curled neatly, every movement dripping with authority. And yet… she can tell. The slight twitch of his ears, the way his eyes flick to the shadows—Abram’s bravado is just that: a show.

  Her fingers tighten on her bag. Somehow, knowing he’s pretending makes him seem both less frightening and more… human, somehow.

  “Rule three,” Abram continues, tail flicking lazily. “Never—and I mean never—open a book without my permission. These are no ordinary books, as you will see, and they can be… uhh, let’s say… unforgiving.” He jumps down from the desk, strutting away. "Come along, now."

  “This door, I fear, may be the only way out… I think,” Abram says, stopping in front of it.

  A large, heavy steel door sits against the empty wall, far too cold and solid for the warmth of the library around it. Cog-shaped holes are etched across its surface, and chains snake up and down its borders. A heavy padlock seals the doorknob in place, stubborn and unyielding.

  Amelie steps forward, finger hovering over one of the cog-shaped holes as Abram speaks.

  “I’ve seen some of those… circle shapes in books I’ve entered, and I think to gain them we have to find the right worlds—”

  “Ow!” She jerks back, blood welling from her finger where the cog cut her.

  “Be careful, little one… oh boy, this is going to be much harder than I anticipated. Are you okay?” Abram’s tail twitches anxiously.

  She presses her injured finger against her dress, leaving a bright red splotch on the white fabric.

  “Y-yes… I’ve felt worse,” she says bluntly, jaw tight but eyes steady.

  “Shhhh…” Abram hisses, eyes scanning the shadows of the library.

  “I’m used to bl—” Amelie begins, but he cuts her off.

  “Quiet, girl!” he snaps in an urgent whisper, tail bristling.

  A distant pitter-patter echoes through the library, quickly turning into metallic clanging, scraping and carving into the wood as it draws closer. One step becomes two… then eight, as dozens of spindly legs come into view.

  “Down!” Abram hisses, pressing himself against her side. They both duck behind a pile of books, hearts hammering.

  The creature’s head looms impossibly high, connected to a shadowed body that manages to remain mostly hidden. Its eyes are empty voids, and atop its head perches a tattered top hat that belonged to some long-forgotten person. Sharp white teeth gleam as it surveys the library, moving with an unnatural, deliberate grace.

  Amelie presses herself against the pile of books, heart hammering so hard she can barely breathe. Her fingers clutch her bag, knuckles white, and her eyes keep darting toward the shadowed shape of the creature. Every metallic scrape and clatter twists her stomach into knots.

  Abram notices the tremble in her hands. Slowly, carefully, he lifts a paw and rests it over hers. The touch is light but steady, grounding her. She swallows, drawing in a shaky breath, feeling a flicker of courage amid the fear.

  The creature vanishes into the endless maze of bookshelves, leaving toppled shelves and splintered floorboards in its wake. Dust hangs thick in the air, and the echoes of its many legs fade… but it’s impossible to tell how far away it has gone.

  “Um…” Abram moves his paw and stalks a few steps away. “Have some dignity, Princess. Up!” he shouts, chin lifted high.

  “Princess?!?” Amelie gasps, the surprise making her forget, for a moment, the fear from earlier.

  “Yes, Princess. I am royalty—a Prince from the Al-Hadir family—and I would never taint my reputation by being around common folk!” Abram’s voice booms through the shelves. “So you will be an honorary princess… for now.”

  “Woah…” Amelie straightens, chest swelling a little as confidence flares.

  “Don’t get your head too big now, girl. It’s only temporary!” he adds, tail flicking imperiously.

  Amelie stands and curtsies in her dress, giggling. “That’s okay… but who’s that?” She points toward a large man slumped against the wall in the corner.

  “Oh…” Abram pads over, resting a paw lightly on the man’s boots with an exaggerated sigh. “This is… this was Irvid, I suppose.”

  The man snores loudly, much like the librarian had, sprawled against the wall in a faded blue janitor’s uniform. His thinning hair barely covers his scalp, and his balding head gleams faintly in the torchlight.

  “Oh wow… it’s been so, so long since I’ve spoken to someone.” Abram closes his eyes, tail curling slightly around his paws. “I guess it’s… nice having you here now, Princess. Even if you are far too quiet and clumsy for my liking.”

  Amelie shifts on her feet, cheeks warming, a small smile tugging at her lips.

  The library settles into quiet again. Dust drifts lazily in the torchlight, and Abram curls up, eyes half-closed, tail flicking occasionally.

  Amelie sits still for what feels like ages, watching the shadows dance across the towering shelves. Hours might have passed—she isn’t sure—before she finally exhales, letting her curiosity push her forward.

  Amelie discovers a broken wooden staircase leading up to a small second-floor section of the library. Paintings lean on every easel, their canvases buried under thick dust and… other unpleasant things. She wrinkles her nose and scoffs, stepping carefully around the grime, curiosity outweighing her disgust.

  Amelie drags her sleeves across one of the grimy canvases, brushing away years of dust and filth. Slowly, the image beneath emerges, and her breath catches.

  The painting depicts a man — tall, striking, with dark hair and sharp features, eyes full of quiet authority. His expression is calm, confident… and somehow familiar.

  All of the paintings are exquisite, masterful recreations of people, their details so precise it feels as if they might step off the canvas. Amelie even spots one of the librarian, frozen in quiet repose. Each easel is chained to the ground, a heavy lock with a keyhole glinting in the torchlight.

  Then something at the far end of the room catches her eye… a half-finished painting, untouched by dust, its canvas glowing faintly in the dim torchlight. A faceless girl with bright blonde hair is beginning to take form, delicate strokes hinting at her shape and expression—but it’s far from finished.

  Amelie steps closer, breath catching. Who could be painting this?